18. Delilah
DELILAH
I spend the next three weeks in a state that can only be described as pathetic.
Not because anything bad happens. The opposite, actually.
Kane and I eat dinner together most nights.
He makes me laugh about stupid things like the time Niko got locked in a freezer at the yard or how Anton refuses to admit he needs reading glasses.
We talk about the bakery rebuild and the Vetrov case and whether the new tiles I ordered will arrive on time.
It's easy. Comfortable. And I hate how much I look forward to it.
Because every night ends the same way. I stand up from the table, thank him for dinner, and walk upstairs alone while he watches me go.
Sometimes I pause at the landing and look back. He's always still standing there.
Neither of us says anything about it.
Then Friday rolls around and I find myself sitting across from him at dinner, hyper-aware of how his shirt fits across his shoulders and how his hands move when he gestures and how his mouth curves when I make some sarcastic comment about Niko's organizational skills.
"You're staring," Kane says without looking up from his plate.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"You're very confident for someone who can't even prove it."
He glances up then, smirking. "I can always prove it."
My face heats. "How?"
"Because I have security tapes. And if I pull them right now, they're going to show you staring at my mouth for the past ten minutes."
Busted.
"Maybe I was lost in thought," I try.
"Were you?"
"Yes."
"What thoughts?"
I have no answer for that. He waits, still smirking, and I glare at him.
"You're insufferable," I say.
"You like it."
He's not wrong. That's the worst part.
After dinner I help him clear the table even though he tells me not to. We work in silence, moving around each other in the kitchen like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
When the dishes are done, I dry my hands on a towel and turn to find him leaning against the counter watching me.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
"Now who's staring, Mister?"
He shrugs. "I just like it when you're happy."
The admission settles soft and warm in my chest. I don't know what to do with it.
"I should go upstairs," I say instead.
"Probably."
I don't move.
Neither does he.
"Goodnight, Kane."
"Goodnight, Lilah."
I walk out of the kitchen, through the hall, and up the stairs to the second floor. When I reach the landing I glance back and—of course—he's standing in the doorway watching me.
I keep going.
By the time I reach the third floor my heart is pounding and I have no idea why. It's just dinner. It's just Kane. It's the same thing we've done every night this week.
Except it's not.
I stop outside his bedroom door and knock before I can talk myself out of it.
He opens it a few seconds later looking surprised. "Hey."
"Hey." I shift. "Can I come in?"
He steps back without answering, holding the door open.
I step into the room. His hands stay at his sides, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Why are you here, Lilah?"
I swallow hard. "You know why."
"I do. But I want to hear you say it."
My heart jackhammers in my throat. Still, I push the words out.
"I've imagined this every night since our last kiss," I admit.
His eyes fill with heat. Hunger.
And maybe, just maybe, with relief.
"Every night?" he asks.
"Yes."
"What did you imagine?"
"This." I reach up and touch his jaw. He goes very still under my hand. "You. Me."
"What did we do?"
"Stopped pretending we don't want this."
He exhales slowly. "Lilah—"
"I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?"
"You're going to tell me I need to forgive you first. That we shouldn't do this until I'm sure." I drop my hand. "And you're right. But I'm tired of doing the right thing."
He reaches out and cups my face in both hands, tilting my head up to look at him.
"I want you to forgive me," he says. "I want that more than I want anything else. But I also want tomorrow. And the day after that. And I know sleeping together can't earn me either of those things."
"Then stop talking about forgiveness," I say.
"What do you want me to talk about?"
"Tell me whether you still want me." Heat spreads through me as I speak. "Knowing I might never give it."
His thumbs brush across my cheekbones. "I want you enough that I've stopped knowing what to do with myself when you leave."
The words settle over me, warm and heavy.
"I want to stay," I whisper.
He kisses me.
There's no gentleness this time. He claims my mouth like he's been holding back for weeks.
The pretense shatters.
I kiss him back, hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders. He tastes the same as I remember—like want and heat and the one person I can't seem to stop needing no matter how hard I try.
His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against him. I can feel his heart pounding under my palms.
When he finally pulls back we're both breathing hard.
"Bed," I manage.
He doesn't need to be told twice.
We stumble toward the bed, mouths still attached, hands pulling at fabric. My sweater comes off first. Then his shirt.
By the time we reach the mattress I'm in my bra and jeans and he's shirtless and staring at me like I'm a three-course meal.
"You're beautiful," he says.
"Kane—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "Don't deflect. Just let me look at you."
I force myself to stay still while his eyes trail over me. It's harder than it should be. Harder than it was before everything fell apart.
"I don't know if I can do this without overthinking it," I admit.
"Then let me do the thinking for both of us." He steps closer and unhooks my bra, sliding it off my shoulders. "Just feel."
His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. I gasp and arch into his touch.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that."
He lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth. I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on while he works me over with his tongue.
By the time he moves to the other side I'm already soaking through my panties.
"Kane," I breathe.
"Tell me what you need."
"You. Just—please."
He eases me back onto the bed and works my jeans and panties down my legs, tossing them aside. Then he settles between my thighs and looks up at me.
"I've been thinking about this since the last time," he says.
"What?"
"Tasting you again."
Before I can respond he lowers his mouth to me and licks a slow stripe up my center.
I cry out and my hips jerk off the bed. He pins them down with one forearm across my stomach and does it again, slower this time.
"God," I gasp. "Kane—"
He keeps working me with his tongue, alternating between long, slow licks and focused attention on my clit that makes my vision blur.
"Sladkaya," he murmurs against me. "Moya sladkaya."
The Russian nickname he started calling me during the holidays sounds even better now. Sweeter, somehow.
I dig my fingers into his hair and hold on while he devours me. He's a starving man between my legs, like he's been waiting weeks for permission to do this.
The pressure builds low in my stomach. My thighs start to shake.
"Kane, I'm—" I try to warn him.
"Come for me." He slips two fingers inside me and curls them just right. "Let me taste it."
That's all it takes.
I come hard, back arching off the bed, his name ripping out of my throat. He works me through it with his tongue and fingers until I collapse back onto the mattress, boneless and gasping.
He kisses his way up my stomach, over my breasts, along my throat, until his mouth finds mine again. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it should probably be weird, but it's not. It's the hottest thing in the world.
"Condom," I manage between kisses.
"Nightstand."
I reach over and fumble through the drawer until I find the box. He takes it from me and tears one open with his teeth while I work his belt and zipper.
His cock springs free and I wrap my hand around it. He groans and his hips jerk forward into my grip.
"Lilah—"
"I want you inside me," I tell him. "Now."
He rolls the condom on and settles between my legs, bracing himself on his forearms so he's hovering over me. His eyes search my face.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Yes."
He lines himself up and pushes inside slowly. I'm still sensitive from my orgasm and the stretch makes me gasp.
"You okay?" he asks, going still.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He sinks in deeper until he's fully seated. We both groan.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel—"
"Move," I interrupt. "Please move."
He does. Gentle at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust is maddeningly slow. Like he's trying to memorize the feel of me.
I hook my legs around his waist and pull him deeper. "Faster."
"Bossy."
"You like it."
His mouth curves. He picks up the pace. The sound of skin against skin fills the room along with my ragged breathing and his low groans.
I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Harder."
"Sladkaya," he murmurs, but he gives me what I want. His hips snap forward and I cry out.
"Yes! Like that."
He fucks me harder, deeper, the way I need. His mouth finds mine and swallows my moans.
The pressure builds again. Faster this time. Sharper.
"Kane," I gasp. "I'm—"
"I know. I can feel it." He sneaks one hand between us and circles my clit with his thumb. "Come on my cock, Lilah. Let me feel you."
I shatter.
My second orgasm slams into me even harder than the first. I clench around him and he groans, his rhythm faltering.
"Fuck," he grits out. "Lilah—"
He thrusts twice more and then goes still, his whole body tensing as he comes. I hold him through it, my hands gentle on his back while he shudders above me.
After a moment, he carefully pulls out and disposes of the condom, then collapses beside me on the bed.
We lie there in silence. Both of us breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
Well.
So that just happened.
The reality of what we just did starts to settle over me.
I should say something. Acknowledge it somehow. But every sentence I start in my head sounds wrong.
After a minute I sit up.
Kane's hand catches my wrist. "Don't."
I look back at him. "Don't what?"
"Don't leave yet."
The vulnerability in his voice stops me cold. He's not performing. Not trying to manipulate me into staying.
He's asking me to.
I search his face. "Why?"
"Because I want you here."
I settle against his side, my head on his shoulder. His arm comes around me and holds me there.
"I was waiting for you to ask," I confess.
He tugs me a little closer. "Yeah?"
"I don't know what this means," I say.
"It doesn't have to mean anything yet."
"But it means something."
"Yeah." His hand traces lazy patterns on my arm. "It means I'm not ready for you to leave."
I close my eyes. "What if I regret this tomorrow?"
"Then you regret it tomorrow." His lips brush my temple. "But right now you're here. So let's just be here."
I want to argue. To make him promise things he can't promise. To find a way to make this safe and predictable.
But I'm tired of making the safe choice every time.
So I stay.
His breathing evens out after a while and I think he's fallen asleep. But then his hand tightens around my arm.
"Lilah?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you knocked."
Despite everything, I smile against his shoulder. "Me too."
He doesn't say anything else. Just holds me there in the quiet while I try to figure out what the hell I just did.
And whether I'm brave enough to do it again.